Message-ID: <60653asstr$1285521002@assm.asstr.org>
From: "Ron Garret" <fastcat@gmx.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Wrong Path (Mb, oral, anal, slow)
Lines: 661
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 13:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


I'm an occasional contributor to Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated, mostly as
repayment to the community for all the great stories I get to enjoy, and
perhaps by paying it forward and encouraging others to do the same.

   I'd say you're forbidden from reading this if blah blah blah. 
Personally, I think that's just plain stupid.  If you can't read these
stories because they're forbidden in your country, then what are you doing
here?  And everyone knows that those under 18 don't surf the web, much less
actually read stories on here.  I will say the following is a complete and
utter fabrication with no relation whatsoever to reality and never will be
real.

   Comments are welcome.  My email is fast.remove.cat@gmx.com (remove the
periods too)

   Story codes: Mb, Anal, Oral, Slow, Ped, Preteen

   Please continue reading if you're offended by any of that, because we're
losing touch with the great world of conflict.  Go ahead, get offended, it
might actually help you learn where your limits are.

   == Begin Story =

   This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen, I thought as the cuffs
dug deep into my wrists, the officer pushing down the accelerator hard as
we left the scene of my arrest, pushing me back into the hard plastic seat.
The pain hurt so much.  The cuffs too, I suppose, but I wasn't thinking
about that as tears fell down my face.  My only thoughts were only for poor
Zane, and the horror he himself was about to face.  Alone.  Without me.

   I closed my eyes, not that it really helped.  It just brought into focus
the shock on Zane's face as I was arrested.  As realization dawned on him,
he cried out for me, tried to push his way past the other officer, to get
to me.  "Don't take him, don't take him away, he's good!" he begged them.
And moments later, the wail as the tears started flowing, his face turning
crimson, as he let out a mournful wail, "Don't make me go back!" It rose to
a scream, "DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK!"

   --

   I met Zane nearly two years before.  Gawd, what a vision it was.  His
pants were down around his knees, his cock was in his hand, and he was
pounding it for all he was worth.  Suddenly he stiffened and let out a
groan, and I could see a drop, maybe two shoot out the end of his dick to
fall to the oak leaves, the leftovers spilling onto his fist, which he
lifted up to his mouth and cleaned off with his tongue.

   As he was bathing himself, I finally remembered to breathe once again.
His buttocks and upper thighs were so pale, the areolas of his nipples
almost black against the tan skin.  I was in lust instantly, having seen
such an intimate moment as that, a boy pleasuring himself.  He turned
slightly away from where he spilled on the ground, and pulled up his
underwear and shorts, the cock slapping up against his belly, still half
hard and framed with two small patches of pubic hair, dark eyes above the
trunk of his boyhood.  His balls hadn't relaxed from the release, they were
still tight up against his body.

   If I had to guess, I'd say from looking at his groin that he was maybe
thirteen, just about to undergo his growth spurt.  The rest of his body,
though, was that of a ten year old, short, fit, body hair glowing yellow on
the tan skin, a dark mop of hair atop his head.  He hadn't fallen into the
habits of the local boys in spiking his hair with gel, and his mother was
probably nagging him that it was time to go to the barber.  His lips were
pale red, surprisingly full for a boy.

   The blood must have finally stopped pounding in his ears, as his head
whipped around to stare at me.  And I locked vision with him, and
immediately became lost in those dark brown eyes, looking at me through
fine full lashes.  I don't know what he was thinking, but after an eternity
of perhaps 20 seconds of being lost in his eyes, he turned and ran on down
the path towards the trail below, shoes kicking up dirt as he sprinted
away.

   In a daze I walked over to the spot he had been standing in, whipped out
my cock which was painfully hard, and deposited my seed upon his, spraying
it onto the ground.  Usually it just dribbles out, especially when I cum so
quickly, but this time it rocketed out like it hadn't since I was a
teenager.

   --

   Processing at the jail was one of being shoved around, pushed into
place, and hard fingers digging into my shoulder or twisting the cuffs as I
was led around.  When it came to fingerprints, my hand was nearly paralyzed
by the long time in too tight cuffs, and the crushing fingers of the
jailer. I was shoved into a processing cell, the cuffs not removed, and I
tripped and my head crashed into the combination sink and commode.  Bright
light flashed in my eyes, and blood started flowing down my face from the
scalp cut as I numbly sat down on the metal bench, and waited.

   --

   I had stalked those woods, hopeful that the boy would return.  My boss
gave me formal warning about my overlong lunches, and my wife gave more
warning as I spent almost the entire weekend along those paths, trying to
find him again.  The second Thursday I was unemployed, and my wife
suggested I go stay at a hotel rather than bothering to come home.  And all
I could think about was tomorrow, I'll find him.

   I was out of the hotel at six am, after having what they termed a
breakfast, and what any reasonable person would think to be unfit for
animals.  I didn't care.  Everything sat like a lump in my stomach since
I'd seen him.  Fifteen past, I was along the trails once more, hopeful that
the boy used this as a path to school, and perhaps I might get lucky and
he'd stop off to relieve pressure before making it to the combination
elementary / middle school that served this area.

   I saw several boys, powering across and along the trails on their
mountain bikes and dirt bikes, but none were my boy.  The walkers came
next, more often than not the older boys and girls.  A young couple stopped
and kissed in front of me, and all I could think about as her hand ran over
his pants was -~hurry up and get the fuck out of here...' His hand got
jerked violently away from her breast, and with a boner that stretched his
jeans, they were off down the path to school once more.

   And then my heart skipped a beat, as he came up over the low rise,
turning into a pounding drum that echoed in my ears as he turned up the
path towards where I had seen him the first and until now, only time. 
White t-shirt, worn gym pants, the youth almost certainly had the dreaded
first period gym.

   In the two weeks since I'd seen him, his mother must have won the battle
over his hair, as it was close shaved in the back, and short on top.  His
ears stood out, but more, much more of his long neck was exposed, and it
looked completely delicious.  How I went from a normal family guy wage
slave to a drooling stalking pedophile, I don't know.  But there wasn't a
part of him I wasn't eager to touch, taste and explore.

   My timing on previous visits must have just stank, as he hardly bothered
to look around when he got to the spot I had seen him before, and stalked
out this morning.  I had chosen the wrong side though, as when he dropped
his pants, all I could see were his creamy buttocks and pale thighs.  His
shirt started quivering as he was beating off, and those cheeks clenched
tight as he gasped and spilled another load on the ground.  Moments later,
his shorts were up and he was turning to head back towards the trail when
his eyes glanced past mine, and then returned and locked gaze once again.

   --

   They hauled me into an interview room, advised me of my rights again,
and shackled one arm to a loop under the table and let me sit in the cold
steel chair for an hour or so.  A mirrored wall with ghostly black
silhouettes passing around behind the one way glass was all I had to look
at.  I suppose this was to give me some time to think, to feel guilty, but
I didn't.  My only regret was getting caught, as the boy's going to suffer
so much.

   Eventually, someone walked in, stood behind me in a menacing presence.
It might have worked, if I couldn't have seen him in the mirrored surface
in front of me.  He finally walked around to face me, sitting down in the
chair on the other side of the table.  "Do you want water or anything?"
asked the man.

   "A lawyer," I replied quietly.

   I was actually surprised when he tried to reason with me, to choose
another path.  "It'll take a while for one to get here, you probably won't
even see them until a couple minutes before arraignment, and you'll likely
be kept in isolation until that happens.  You sure you don't just want to
worry about the lawyer until later?"

   "The boy's father will kill him as soon as the cops drop him off at the
house.  I assume you've got the kid at the hospital, to document whatever
evidence that can be found.  Call the hospital, talk to whatever officer's
there with the social worker about how the father's acting, tell him what I
said, and see if he disagrees," I replied.  I knew I was going to jail for
the rest of my life, I didn't want the boy's last memories to be of having
swabs stuck in his rectum and exposure to a nurse and bored doctor, while
an officer stood nearby.  "Also ask them to take x-rays of the boy.  Left
arm, ribs, and both legs.  There's num..."

   "What type of sick creature are you?" asked the detective, interrupting
me and slapping a hand down on the table.  I just stared at him.  What else
could I do?

   He stared back, pulled out a pen, and started jotting something down on
a piece of paper.  "Why the legs?" he asked.

   "He told me that they've been broken at least five times.  He had just
gotten out of the cast when I met him.  Fell down the stairs, closed a car
door on them, swingset accident.  Always a different hospital every time,
and this was his ninth school," I told him.  I suppose it started out with
him telling me his name, what I was charged with, whatever, but my mind was
so locked on the boy, and what would happen to him.

   "You're trying to tell me that you abducted the boy to save him from a
rotten home?" asked the officer, the disbelief strong in his voice.

   "He said he went to clinics each time, different one always, and his
father kept saying a different name each time.  But his father's ID was
checked at all, so if you ask around using his father's name, you'll find
the records," I insisted, hopeful that this was recorded and that someone
would be kind enough to actually watch it, as I doubted the detective in
front of me was going to do anything other than find an excuse to put me in
the wrong cell and pass word around that I'm a boy lover.

   He wrote down a few more words, and without saying anything, got up and
left.

   --

   Those brown eyes were tar pits for the soul.  He didn't flee this time,
just stared at me, and keeping my hands in the clear, I stepped out from
the old oak tree where I had been crouched under.  I got up to about five
feet from him, before he took a step back, and I stopped, obviously
reaching the closest I was going to get to him.  "Who are you!" he suddenly
demanded.

   Someone who has lost everything just looking for you...  "Ron..  Ron
Coleman," I replied.

   "What are you doing here?" he shot at me.

   Waiting to see you again, to watch you, to fantasize..  "I saw you a
couple weeks ago, I was hoping to see you again." The stalker reply didn't
make him take flight away from me, which admittedly surprised me.

   "Why?"

   "You looked like you needed a friend." I have no idea why I said that.
Then again, I think I was kinda busy at the moment chewing myself out for
the stalker reply just a moment ago, and it took a little bit before an
urgent message arrived in my brain informing me of the stupid thing I just
said to him.

   "You going to hurt me?"

   "No," I replied, hands still slightly out from my hips, palms where he
could see them.  Gawd, I was so ashamed at being caught, least that's when
the guilty conscious hit like a tsunami, pulling the mental feet out from
under me, and I stared down at the leaves.  A couple dark spots showed
where he had just cum, and guilt drew my eyes up a bit, and that was when I
first saw the bruises.  I wouldn't have given it a second thought if he had
shin guards in his socks or something, but even the worst soccer game
wouldn't put bruises across the boy's calves, and thighs, above and below
his knees.  His legs were shaking, he was afraid, and I couldn't blame him.

   What happened next froze me in my place, I couldn't move my arms, my
breathing was rushed as he closed those five feet and wrapped his arms
around me.  "Don't let him hurt me again," he wailed into my chest, his
arms tight against me, and every sexual thought I had about him vanished in
an instant.  I would do anything to protect that boy right now.

   Over the next four hours, where the youth consumed a big breakfast, a
huge orange juice, and a big gulp, he told me his story.  I couldn't help
but feel my heart rip with each terror that was detailed, and relief that
all he could remember was six of the eleven years of terror he lived under
his father.  Broken arms, broken legs, cracked ribs, concussions.  Hours of
being beaten with a cane, a belt and a rod, of drunken rages aimed at him,
at a lifetime of being punished for his mother not surviving birth, and his
offense at not bothering to die.  It came pouring out as if a dam burst,
including how he had told a teacher, a priest, and even a police officer,
And how the beatings got worse after his father convinced the teacher it
was just stories, how the priest was reported by the father for trying to
molest the boy, and the police officer who filed the report, and the sudden
move immediately afterward that took all hope of a social worker showing up
away.

   I was none of those, I was a stranger, and the boy was throwing
everything into the hope that I wouldn't bother going to his father, that I
would just take him to safety.

   --

   I honestly just figured they forgot about me in the interview room.  The
clock marched backwards in the mirror, the tick tick of the second hand
really the only noise I heard for hours.  It was nearly ten hours and two
in the morning before the door reopened, and in walked the detective and a
woman.

   "Start again at what you were saying about what we should check on the
boy," insisted the detective.  The woman didn't go to the opposite side of
the desk, but stayed out of direct eye sight, but I could see the loathing
on her face as I started detailing what the boy told me.  The earliest
memory of incredible pain from his father accidentally stepping on the
boy's leg, and snapping it like a match stick to the most recent beating,
for relaying the teacher's instruction to bring back the signature cards or
he's in trouble at school.

   It was just after four when I finished, and aside from the officer
asking a couple clarifying questions about what I said, no one said
anything as I poured it out, passing on the boy's story.

   The rage in the woman's eyes wasn't directed at me, I don't think.  She
left without a word with the detective, and it was another four hours
before I even saw movement on the other side of the smokey glass.  Zane, I
think, was pointing at me, while someone thin, probably that woman, bent
down to hear whatever he was saying, and a large presence next to them
likely was the detective.  Short lived, they left the other room, and
again, I listened to tick-tick-tick for another two hours.

   --

   My life was in my bags in the trunk, the severance from work still not
fully cleared in my bank account, but big enough that I wouldn't be hurting
for money, even living in expensive motels, for a good year.  The car was
paid off, a couple cards in my wallet that were billed to my former home. I
was groundless because of this boy, and it was so easy to just drive away.
We stopped for pee breaks by the side of the road, soda from gas stations,
and food from greasy spoons.  I drove through three tanks of gas before
exhaustion started to catch up with me, and even though the boy spent a lot
of time asleep, he didn't object when I said we were pulling off the road
to sleep.

   Cheap freeway motel, the rates on the sign, and the morning clerk gave
us a room without making us wait around for checkin at noon.  The boy slept
in his own bed, wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else, and I sawed
logs until the sun was nearly down.  Hunger hit both of us at the same
time, and it was another chain that fed us grease by the spoonful.  We went
back to our room, and he plopped down in front of the tv, watching
cartoons, and I went and took a shower.  It was a long shower, as the miles
had taken their toll on me.  When I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a
towel and accompanied by a cloud of steam, the boy was once again dressed
only in my t-shirt, and sound asleep atop the bed.  Not wanting to move
him, or wake him, I took the blanket off my bed and covered him with it,
tucking it in gently, and kissing the top of his head.

   --

   All things considered, the kidnapping charge was probably going to be my
biggest worry.  Enhancements for Zane being a child under 12, going across
state lines, sexual molestation.  Probably even some pornography charges
for what was on the digital camera.  Federal time..  A long federal time. I
realized with a start that I was actually thinking about myself at this
point, the unexpected relief at seeing a boy I thought was Zane in that
darkened room with the social worker and knowing he wasn't with his
father...  Probably wouldn't ever be with his father again.

   At 1, a police volunteer brought in a plate with a sandwich and a cup of
coffee, the first food I'd had in a while.  I ate it without tasting, the
coffee burning a trail of acid right down to my stomach.  I'd tried denial,
I'd tried anger.  All I felt now was guilt.  Guilt at the delusions I
played on myself, to try to justify touching the boy, of him touching me,
of mutual and varied sexual satisfaction.  I had lied to myself, thinking
that finally the boy had love, and instead I gave him lust.

   At 4 they took me to an isolated cell near the jail desk, and aside from
a meal served a few hours later, I saw no one until the lights went out,
and when they came back on, the door was being opened and I was told I'm
going to arrangement.

   --

   I slept just under the thin motel sheet that night, tossing and turning,
too cold, and too tired to do anything about it.  Finally I found some
sleep, and the light from the window woke me up as the sun peeked over the
horizon outside.  I was under the blanket, my hand across the boy, holding
him to my chest, the morning wood pressed into the cleft of his butt.  He
had shuckled the t-shirt and brought the blanket over sometime during the
night, and warmed me with his own body.

   My hand roamed over his body, my erection almost painful from the
hardness, and the slight bend from being pressed against his ass. 
Fingertips found the testicles, and a little playing woke the boy, who
simply moved his ass away from me, and laid on his back.  In a couple
moments, I first touched his dick, and the thing that really surprised me
was how hot it was, how I could feel his heartbeat through it.  I ran
fingers up and down his shaft, and across the tip of his dick.  He'd make
little noises, sometimes watching me, sometimes with his eyes closed, but
it wasn't long before his hips were lifting up off the bed, and I started
running my hand up and down his shaft.

   He was breathing heavy, his eyes wrenched shut, hands gripping the sheet
under him, when I moved and took him into my mouth.  His hips shot upward,
and I had only gotten a couple sucks in before I felt the wetness on my
tongue, and the grunt-sigh of pleasure from the boy as he unloaded.  The
balls tried to push in even further as my fingers danced across them as he
was coming down, and I bathed his cock clean with my tongue.  I pulled back
to look at him, a big smile on my face, when his eyes snapped open, and he
got up off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, where I heard him piss like
a race horse into the toilet.  I was just about to deal with my own raging
hardon when he came back in, the cock limp, a smile on his face, as he
jumped onto the bed on his knees and then pushed me over onto my back.

   His hand wrapped around my shaft, and started stroking me, pausing when
he felt the precum at the top of my cock.  He ran the palm of his hand over
it, and I moaned in pleasure from the intensity of it, before he lifted his
hand and licked it off.  "Tastes like me!" he told me, before bending over
and scraping his teeth across my sensitive head in an effort to stuff it
into his face like I had done him.  I jumped from the sensation, which only
forced more into his mouth, his lips coming down onto my shaft, a hand just
below his mouth, and both rising as he lifted his head.

   The teeth either stopped soon thereafter, or I just didn't know it
anymore, as his tongue bathed my cockhead, and his hand ran up and down my
shaft.  I had no idea how horny I had become, but it wasn't long before I
also did the grunt-sigh and unloaded stream after stream of cum into his
mouth.

   I had to pull his mouth off my dick as he continued sucking long after I
finished cumming, and I was so sensitive from the intensity of it.  We
curled up together and drifted off to sleep, him spooned against me.

   --

   Arrangement was a blur at first.  The public defender met with me just
outside the courtroom, and didn't ask any questions, nor allow any to be
asked.  "I made a deal, a good one, so just plead guilty," I was told.  No
details about the plea bargain were told to me, and I was soon before the
judge, and the public defender stood and stated that I would like to waive
time, and enter a guilty plea.  The judge asked me if that was right, and I
don't know why I did, but I just said yes.  Why draw it out, why get people
to ask Zane awkward questions about what we did together, why embarrass the
boy in front of dozens of strangers?

   "Plea noted, guilty entered into the record," the judge intoned, and as
he was bringing down the gavel, which I really didn't think judges honestly
had outside of television shows, the public defender asked for the judge's
attention.

   "Your Honor, we'd like to move for time served," he said, and I didn't
know what to say, and looked to the judge.

   The judge looked at me for a moment, looked down at the papers on his
podium like desk for a moment, then said, "Denied.  Charges are vacated and
the defendant is released with prejudice," he added, looking towards a
assistant district attorney who was busy reading papers and not really even
paying attention to what was going on.  "The People are reminded that
sobriety checkpoints are not an open invitation to violate the rights of
the people, and that a locked trunk is not plain sight, even if the
defendant complies with an officer's request to open it." He looked back to
me and added, "And you, next time stand up for your rights, as these bozos
were trying to railroad you.  They're lucky I'm not reporting their
behavior.  And grow up, you're too old to be playing around with pot
anyway. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

   In shock, I walked out of the courtroom, not understanding what went on,
and outside was the social worker I had never really met.  "Zane's in my
office," she said to me, "so let's talk over in the conference room."

   I followed her, not saying anything, not sure what to say..  There
wasn't any pot in my car.

   She opened the door, told me to sit, and then she collapsed into the
other chair.  She looked worse than I did, and I'd been in jail for a good
part of the last 48 hours.  She reached over and pulled up a large satchel,
like what an artist would store their portfolio in.  She drew out a couple
giant pieces of film and a white sheet of paper, and put them on the table.
I didn't want to look at the maze of fractures that were there.

   "We investigated your story..  Well, Zane's story.  Only one clinic had
ever seen Zane Westfield, but seventeen had Bill Westfield bringing in his
son for injuries, all of them exactly the same age, and every one having a
different name for the boy.  He stayed ahead of child services, moving to a
different county each time they started an investigation, and once the new
county started, they started from scratch, not knowing about the other
investigations.  We also checked to see if there was a missing person's
report on Zane, and there's been nothing.  When the school sent someone
around to go talk to Bill about why Zane hadn't shown up at school, he said
that Zane went to live with his mother, and she'll arrange for the records
transfer whenever she comes off her high.  That's a quote from the school
investigator," she said.

   She stared at me for a moment, and I still didn't know what to say, so
did the right thing, I guess, and kept my mouth shut as she continued. 
"The doctor at the hospital did a through exam of Zane.  The report
detailed extensive early childhood trauma, malnutrition, and signs of
physical abuse.  He also said that there were signs of recent sexual
activity, but a lack of any indicators to show it was anything other than
consensual relations.  Zane himself was distraught that his -~uncle' wasn't
at the hospital, and kept demanding that you be brought back.  The doctor
finally gave him a sedative so the boy could at least get some sleep."

   "He's a great boy, just has some issues we're still working out," I
said, a bit of pride tinging my voice.  I had expected him to turn into a
lump, not be his own advocate.  So many times he'd been betrayed by the
system, I really expected him to just be quiet and let whatever happen
happen, but he didn't.  Good on him.  "You going to place him with foster
care?" I asked.

   "You're going to abandon him?" she asked, with a fire in her eyes that
surprised me for someone so tired.

   "No, god no.  Just figured..." I started to say when she interrupted.

   "That your dope charges might impact your abilities to formally adopt
the boy?" she said smugly, light coming into her eyes.  "The answer's no,
you've still got an appointment tomorrow before the judge to finalize the
paperwork.  Zane will have to agree to the adoption, as he's old enough to
be his own advocate in court in deciding such a thing."

   Adoption?  Zane?  My boy?

   --

   We had both woken up with piss hardons the next morning, and we tudged
into the bathroom together, and pissed into the bowl at the same time,
before going to the double sinks and pretending to really care about dental
hygiene.  We then showered together, the water waking us up and it lead to
a bit of playing around, him scrubbing my cock to make sure it's clean, me
doing the same to him and then adding in a finger to work on his anus,
before he did the same to me.  It never turned into sex, it was just play,
and he spent more time hugging me than doing anything sexual.

   Towel dry, tossed on clothes, went to the local version of Denny's, ate
far too many pancakes, and checked out.  I tossed my bags in the trunk, and
we stopped at a rummage store more as a lark than anything else.  Zane
amazed me as he assembled a goodly amount of clothes, luggage to pack it
in, and even an ancient football game to play in the car while I was
driving.  Total cost to clothe the boy, including the assorted packs of
underwear and socks?  $94, and he was happy as a clam with his selections,
ducking into the changing room to wear one of the previously loved sets of
clothing he picked out.  The shirt was a burnt orange, tan shorts, even a
nice pair of running shoes.

   The old clothes were donated, including the gym shorts that probably
could qualify as being garbage bin stock.  And as we drove away from the
small town, and the drone of the highway rolled over us from under the
wheels, Zane set aside the football game and asked, "Where are we moving
to, uncle Ron?"

   I shrugged my shoulders and passed him my cell phone.  "Pull up the map,
figure it out, you're the navigator."

   "You gonna keep me?" he wondered, quietly.

   I nodded my head as I kept my eyes on the road ahead.  My hand, though,
moved to his leg and ran up and down it.  "You're stuck with me until you
decide to do something else."

   He was quiet for a few minutes, browsing through the map, and then
finally pointed to a small town halfway to nowhere, but surrounded by light
woods and wetlands too.  "This looks good," he decided.  " -~sides, like
the town name, Hope."

   So that was where we went.  School registration wasn't difficult, just a
change of last name to match my own, and when questions were asked about
his school records, it was explained that Jacksonville doesn't have
especially good schools in the part of town where we lived, so I home
schooled him.  This resulted in a battery of tests of Zane, and turns out
he's got a good brain locked in there despite all what his father did to
him.  Birth father, I reminded myself, because he's mine now.

   Turned out that we arrived at a perfect time to want to get a place to
live.  Rural flight had hit the town especially hard, they were down to
using the high school for all grades, the rest of the schools in the
district vacant and boarded up.  I was really proud when Zane called me
from school and said he was taking the bus home with friends, and wanted
permission to stop by one of their houses for a bit after school, before
coming home.

   That night, I buried my tongue in his rear end, and he did the same to
me, before he sucked me dry, and I got twice as many orgasms out of him. 
We grew bolder in our sexual explorations of each other, when he wasn't
sleeping over at a friend's house, and on his thirteenth birthday, his
present was me buried to the hilt up his ass while he came onto my belly.

   I picked up a job managing a distribution warehouse for a local bottler
for a good salary and great benefits, and we turned around and made an
offer on the house we were living in.  Everything was well settled in by
the time the summer rolled around, and we took some time off together to go
all the way up to Sandusky to enjoy the park up there, including a great
moment where all the cotton candy and soda he had been wolfing through
decorated the big coaster when we got off.

   When we got back, he decided he wanted his own room, and we outfitted it
nicely from a mail order catalog.  Sex together was still there, including
him blowing my mind one late summer evening massaging my prostrate while
sucking my cock for all it's worth, bringing one of the best ever orgasms
I'd had, followed by at first gentle fucking of his tight ass, until he
couldn't take it any longer and I pounded into him until we both were
satisfied.  We fell asleep with me still buried deep inside him, and I got
great sloppy seconds the next morning.

   When the school year started again, Zane got his first enemy, the son of
one of the two remaining active duty officers in town, and thirteen years
of frustration and pain came out in a single punch that took out the other
boy's two adult front teeth, and nearly fractured the jaw.  Defeating the
bully made him a hero at school, and me public enemy number one with the
boy's father.  That was what led to the fateful stop where the car was
searched, and Zane's old life exposed.

   --

   She knew I had been having sex with the teen, that he wasn't mine, and
yet...  "Why are you doing this?" I asked in disbelief.  I'd always had
some lingering guilt in the back of my mind for taking advantage of the
boy, effectively making a trade of sex for protection and love.

   She tapped a pen against the desk for a few times.  "The most regretful
thing is that too many here know what's really going on.  You'll have to
uproot Zane again, take him away from all his friends here, move to another
county at least, if not another state.  And it's a crappy time to sell a
house, and a worse time to find a new job.  But I can't think of any other
solution."

   "But why?" I asked again.

   "Would you ever hurt the boy on purpose?" she asked me.  I shook my
head, and she continued, "That's why.  The only other solution that
presents itself is to send him back to his father.  We couldn't even find
any other relatives he could go live with, and the foster care system..."
She shook her head, "Zane's come a long way, you've helped him there, and
it's none of our concern what you two do together by mutual consent.  You
saved him when every single safety net missed him, and he's thrived. 
That's why."

   --

   The formality of signing the adoption agreement was over, the official
certificate the last thing we packed.  Zane had found a place on the map,
the high country of Colorado, a little town in similar straights as Hope.
The winter wasn't that far off, so we'd leave the car behind and get
something with four wheel drive once we arrived with the U-Haul.

   His friends held a surprise birthday party for Zane, and he confusedly
confessed that it wasn't his birthday, and they said it sure was - birth of
his new family.  Kids might seem like they miss a lot, but they're smarter
than a lot of adults give them credit for.  IM addresses were exchanged,
going away presents given, It really gave Zane some closure before we moved
on, and on moving day, he was excited about the future, not regretful about
what he was leaving behind.

   The bottling distributor had contacts in Colorado, and their friends had
a warehouse that really needed a new manager, the national chain paying big
city salaries for a rural position.  And the mother of Zane's best friend
worked out a complicated house swap, sending the old couple from frigid
winters to warmer climate, a small family from a rotten job market and
awful schools to a place called Hope, and us to a nice place in our new
hometown.  Zane might have gotten closure, but my heart was heavy leaving a
town that was filled with so many generous people.

   Well, that was until the red and blues appeared in my rear view mirror,
and I got the send off of being told to never show my kiddle molesting face
in the town again, and good riddens to the trash.  The trip went well after
that, with Zane and I sharing a bed each night, and falling asleep in each
other's arms.  The last night, in Denver before we headed up the steep
climbs to our new home, Zane kissed me and then told me that the new
beginning comes with changes.

   We pulled into town and moved into our new house, as father and son.  He
was going to maybe see if there were some cute girls at the new school, and
maybe it was time I officially got divorced and started looking around
myself.  Sometimes we'd slip, comfort when his one true love decided to
date a senior with a hot car to match the jock body, some for me the day
the divorce was finalized.

   He was sixteen when he came home, and handed me a piece of paper,
telling me that I should go sign up.  The county was desperate for foster
parents, opening the program to singles as well as traditional nuclear
families.  "There's a boy at school," Zane told me, "who really needs some
love and a helping hand, before he goes down the wrong path."

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